University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER THIRD.
WASHINGTON, THE KING.

The house of the Lady Marion stood alone on the heights
of Wissahikon.

It was a substantial structure of stone, facing toward the
south, its massive front presenting one imposing surface,
while on either side, a semi-circular wing increased its
picturesque effect. Its steep roof arose in many Gothic shapes,
crowned with fantastic chimneys and bordered by heavy
cornices along the eaves.

Above those roofs a grove of horse chestnut trees extended
their grateful shade; their broad green leaves, their substantial
trunks were contrasted with the bright verdure of the
sward, the rich brown of the gravelled walks, the dark gray
of the stone.

On the right of the mansion, from among a copse of hazel,
the roof of a small summer house, or pavilion, burnt into
light. This elegant structure contained but a single room,
furnished in a strange, antique style.

Two winding carriage roads led from the front of the
mansion, under the grove of horse chestnut trees, along a wide
lawn that extended for some three hundred yards, until it
was terminated by the green hedge-row of a shadowy lane.

Behind the mansion sank the wild declivity of Wissahikon,
trees and rocks, sweeps of sward, growths of underwood,
gentle elevations and green hollows, all mingled together.

The mansion contained many chambers, all furnished in
contrasted style; many passages, some hollowed from the
thick wall, some winding like a serpent's track, some

extending broad and deep along the entire extent of the
edifice.

It is with three apartments in this mansion that our history
on the night of July the third, between the hours of ten
and twelve, is connected. The pavilion among the hazel
trees has also a deep interest for us. Almost at the same
time, in the east and in the west wing, in the pavilion and
in the banquetting room of Lady Marion's house, scenes of
vital interest are in progress.

Time had been, when gay equipages, bearing the forms of
gallant men and beautiful women, had rolled along the lawn,
when noble steeds stood champing the bit before the door,
when every window and crevice of the mansion poured out
its separate stream of light, and the entire grove blazed in
every leaf, with a radiance like day.

Then the sound of woman's laughter, the tread of woman's
foot bounding in the dance, mingled with the clatter
of goblets and the music of a full band. Until the morning
dawned, the Wissahikon rung with the sounds of revelry
and the old forest thrilled with the clamor of a mad festival.
The pavilion, too, shrouded in its copse of hazel, witnessed
many a coy meeting, many a scene in which the young
maiden, fluttering in satin and brilliant with diamonds,
her blood thrilling with the dance and wine, heard with
crimsoned cheek and panting bosom the tremulous story,
warm from the lips of passion.

But now all was dark. Dark the mansion in its many
chambers; dark the pavilion in its solitary room; dark the
woods in its tangled mazes and winding paths. Not a
gleam of light, from pavilion or mansion, illumined the midnight
shadows of the grove.

And yet, had you taken your position by the large tree,
that towers before the door, and watched from dark until
midnight, you might have seen many strange guests enter the
room. Let us, within the shadows of the grove, wait patiently
and behold them as they come.

The Lady Marion, with old Michael by her side! It is
but dusk; they come from the woods of Wissahikon, and
silently enter the hall door.

An hour passes—what have we here? A multitude of
forms, shrouded, although it is summer time, in cloaks, with
scabbards rattling underneath. They have left their horses
in yonder grove, hidden by the leaves. One by one they

enter the mansion; twenty forms in all, treading with the
step of young manhood over the gravelled walks.

Another hour! A solitary figure, dressed in a dark habit,
appears, glances cautiously around and is gone into the
mansion. As he turns his face, we may almost recognize
the features of Arthur, Walter or Reginald, as you may
please to call him.

Silence again; an half hour passes, and an old man, whose
dark attire flashes with lace of gold, steps from the shadows
and enters the house of Lady Marion.

Then the form of a young hunter came hurriedly from the
wood in the rear of the house, and, without turning to right
or left, glided within the hazel copse which overshadowed
the pavilion.

Poor Rose of Wissahikon!

You will confess that these movements, this strangely
contrasted crowd of guests, all, save one, entering the house
of Lady Marion, the mystery which envelopes their actions,
the secresy with which they move—fills us with surprise,
with awe.

Between the hours of ten and twelve we will enter the
mansion and behold, in three separate chambers, scenes of
absorbing interest. Then our steps will wander to yonder
pavilion, and, with hushed breath and earnest gaze, we will
witness a scene that exceeds them all, not only in its deep
interest, but in its strange disclosures.

First, let the curtain roll back for the Banquetting Chamber.—

What do we see? No goblets of wine? No wreaths of
flowers? The light of six wax candles, placed in candlesticks
of silver, reveals the wainscotted walls of that wide
chamber, which traverses the mansion from north to south.
At the southern end a black curtain, drooping from the ceiling
to the floor, closes the view.

Around a long table, covered with a dark cloth, the strange
guests are assembled. No service of silver, nor goblets or
plates of gold, nor anything that betokens a festival, do we
behold.

A sword gleams from the dark cloth of that table; beside
it, letters, papers, parchments, bearing the signatures
of such men as Thomas Jefferson and John Adams, George
Washington and John Hancock, are placed.

Do you behold the scene? Those twenty men, all young,
with athletic forms and earnest brows, seated around the

table—their forms brilliant with warrior costume, every
man with his sword unsheathed upon his knee, while his
eye is centered upon that erect figure at the head of the
board!

These are the chivalry of the state and continent; young
men with wealth at their beck, true hearts, who never yet
having shared in council or battle, beat with fiery impatience
to do some service to their native land.

And at the head of the table, his form attired in a uniform
of dark green, faced with gold, stood Walter, the hunter,
his pale, olive cheek, now glowing with strong emotion;
his dark eye, flashing a fire that sent its rays to every heart.

He stood erect, glancing with conscious pride upon these
brave men, who have hailed him Leader!

His eye glances along the board; he searchingly surveys
those faces. Not a brow but wears it faith, like a signet
upon its surface; not an eye but flashed with answering fire
to his own.

In that clear deep voice which warms the blood to hear,
he condenses the deliberations of hours in a few bold
words.

“The time has come for action. The country—the land
which bore us, and which God has given to the free—calls
to us for deliverance! Not deliverance merely from the
sceptre of George III., but from the wiles of faction—the
tricks of anarchists! For days the Congress, sitting in the
old Statehouse, has held its secret session! For days with
closed doors, and all the indications of mystery, it has pursued
its deliberations! To what purpose do these mysterious
councils tend? Witness the intercepted letters of its
leaders, now spread before you on the table—witness the
signatures of Hancock, and Jefferson, and Adams! They
would flood the land with blood, not to accomplish its freedom,
but to establish on the ruins of the British power the
miserable anarchy of a Venetian Senate. They would pour
armies forth on the battle field, not so much to crush King
George, as to crush George Washington!”

He paused, while his flashing eye ran round the throng,
as if eager to gather the purpose of men's hearts from their
faces.

No shout, but a deep murmur pervaded that banquet
chamber. From their muttered whispers, we may gain
some knowledge of the object of this council.

“Jefferson plans the overthrow of Washington!”

“Hancock would restore us to the sway of the British
King!”

“The proofs are there—letters signed by them, and plotting
treason!”

“Even Washington writes to this patriotic lady—the
brave woman who has so mysteriously summoned us together—writes
from his camp, and reveals the treachery of
Congress!”

“We must surround their doors, and scatter their deliberations
to the winds!”

“Ay, sword in hand, my friends! For the sword is your
only cure for the tricks of traitors!”

And twenty extended hands held their good swords in the
light.

At the same moment, from opposite sides of the dark curtain,
a face was thrust into view, and as suddenly withdrawn
again. This, the scarred visage of Michael the Hunter; that,
the beautiful face of Lady Marion.

It must be confessed that as Walter stood erect in the
presence of his comrades, his marked countenance glaring
with the fire of his sworn resolve, he looked, in every inch
of his form, the soldier and the hero.

“For the assassin there is a gibbet; for the traitor, the
sword! To-night, brothers in the good cause—to-night, a
committee, appointed by Congress to put their mysterious
deliberations into shape, held their council in the city. Jefferson,
Adams, Sherman, and Livingston, are that committee,
selected to fulfill the dark work of Congress. Lured, either
by the hope of titles from the King, in case they betray the
country into his hands; or ambitious of positions of power
and trust, in case they establish an aristocratic anarchy, like
the Republic of Venice—these men have determined the
overthrow of Washington. We must trample their schemes
into dust! Desperate crimes require desperate remedies!
We must surround the house in which these traitors hold
their councils—encompass every avenue—encircle the room
in which they plan their treachery—and, at the points of our
swords, force from their grasp the proofs of their treachery!
Ay, we must do it! and before the clock strikes twelve!
Then, with the traitors in our power, we will unfurl our
flag to the morning light, call the generous spirits of the
camp and council to our aid, and, from the Statehouse hall,
proclaim the name under which we rally—the name under

which we will fight—the name which will conquer, with
us—Washington, the King!”

He paused, and a silence like the grave pervaded that hall.
From side to side, the comrades turned, seeking from each
other's faces some explanation of this bold movement. The
light of the wax candles flashed along the wainscotted walls,
and over the dark curtain. Still, that singular silence prevailed.
His brow flushed with emotion, Walter sank in his
chair, while only the sound of deep-drawn breath disturbed
the stillness of the scene.

Slowly—slowly the curtain rolled aside. From its folds,
in all her beauty, her voluptuous form attired in a dark
habit, stepped forth the Lady Marion, with the form of rough
Michael, armed with his rifle, by her side.

“Behold!” and she pointed to an object, disclosed by the
parting of the curtain.

“For that I will fight!” cried old Michael, waving his
rifle toward the object.

At once a shout, like thunder, echoed along that banquet
chamber; at once twenty forms started to their feet, and
twenty swords described their circles in the air.

You see their faces, glowing with enthusiasm; you behold
Walter turn and echo their shout; while the Lady Marion
glides to his side, presses his hands within her own, pours
the passion of her heaving breast into her dark eyes, and
whispers—“Reginald, you have done well!”

And there, disclosed by the curtains, stood the portrait of
a warrior, whose tall form and majestic face seemed about
to start from the canvass, and glide among the guests, and
speak to them. A form, such as kings never owned—an
eye, that gleamed its soul from a chivalric face; a hand,
that grasped its own true sword.

There was a crown upon that noble brow.

And louder through the banquet chamber—while the Lady
Marion, her olive cheek blooming with passion and triumph,
glided closer to Walter's side—louder swelled the shout—

“Washington, the King!”